


The Battle in the Palace

by Avice



Series: Love is Round the Corner [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Also a case, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Sex, Slash, Virgin Sherlock, Virgin!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bored without a case Sherlock is forced to give in to the temptation of dreaming about John. But dreaming isn't enough any more. </p><p>"The starting point had been determined. It was when he had grabbed John's head in his hands, whirled him around and demanded him to remember the ciphers. At that moment he had, in a brief flash, wanted to kiss John and regretted the gloves between them. It had been a passing glimpse into another reality, a remarkable wish. A dream he had filed for a later, more thorough, examination. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battle in the Palace

Boredom. It suffocated him. Experiments without a case - boring. Playing without a puzzle to solve - boring. Telly - dear god, how boring. Books, books, books - his mind ached. How John could read the paper so contently was - boring.  
"John! Find me a case! I need a case," he almost begged.  
John browsed the paper.  
"The euro crisis?"  
"A _case_ , not idiotics!"  
"Body found on a camping site?"  
"John," he groaned, "you're not even trying. Why won't you even try? Please!"  
He fell on the sofa and turned his face to the wall moping. Nearly a week without a case. 

And John constantly present, well, either him or Mrs. Hudson, so he couldn't stimulate his mind with illicit substances, nor licit for that matter. He probably wouldn't anyway, but if he were alone, at least resisting the temptation would provide an activity of some sort. 

Resisting _another_ kind of temptation than the one he was currently, constantly, endlessly, fighting. He would not think about. He simply would not. 

Of course he would. John. He relaxed at the mere thought. Yes, he had the possibility of looking at the real live John, but that always made John nervous. He wasn't his usual self, when being watched closely. He started to behave instead of being. Besides the calm reading of the paper at a time like this infuriated Sherlock. He would rather think. 

The starting point had been determined. It was when he had grabbed John's head in his hands, whirled him around and demanded him to remember the ciphers. At that moment he had, in a brief flash, wanted to kiss John and regretted the gloves between them. It had been a passing glimpse into another reality, a remarkable wish. A dream he had filed for a later, more thorough, examination. 

It had been a while before he had revisited the memory. He had avoided it rather purposely, locked it away at the end of a long, rarely frequented corridor with others like it - splurges of feeling distracting him. John helped him work and he had work. There was no need to add anything into the equation. 

There it stayed, buried in the corner of his mind palace. With a distinct warmth seeping through, a light lingering from under the door. Hidden, but resisting oblivion. Until arrived that rainy Thursday afternoon, when he could no longer defy the pull, and had opened the door. 

The force of what was inside had made him gasp. John. He had never felt anything like it. He had never known of anything like it. He had not been able to deduce its existence.

But he had been right in his avoidance, because nowadays the thought plagued him between cases. Even worse, on cases. In fact, whenever he let his mind slip even the tiniest bit, John took over. The way he smiled, that slight tilt of his head when he tried to think, how he scolded him for his manners, the sound he made when they sat down for dinner after a gruelling case. The small, satisfied sigh. Everything about him crowded Sherlock's mind if he gave it the smallest opening. The door couldn't be pushed shut again. What was inside didn't fit behind it anymore.

At first that had been enough. He had thought about John and been relatively content. The thoughts disturbed him, but they were at least presentations of reality: things that had happened or were happening. But then, as if by themselves, the thoughts had started to go further, to make demands, wishes, to dream, to hope for things. They had started to find ways to make John smile; they fantasised about pulling John into a kiss at the most inconvenient moments, the tilted neck practically inviting it; they waited anxiously, nervously for praise from John; they spent hours wondering what kind of noises John would be making if he… Simply put: the thoughts were completely out of his control.

Which resulted, once again, in an erection. If he had learned to control his penis at the hormonal throes of puberty, shouldn't it be scientifically impossible for him to be so at its mercy at well over thirty. Apparently not. He made one final, serious effort to stop, to command his cock to its comfortable, undemanding, flaccid state. He knew very well it was too late. A hard-on meant he had lost, he had been taken over. 

There were two of him now. The one he had always been: the rational, controlled, intelligent; the one with the right questions, the correct answers and the unerring solutions. And now there was the new one. The one who had emerged slyly from the corner of the closed room without the old him noticing: the sentimental fool, crippled by romance with an almost painful physical need for John. 

The new one took no orders from the old one, laughed at its face more like it. He had tried to control it, to rein it in, to slaughter it even, but it bounced back all carefree, happy, darn daffodils, roses and fields in bloom. There was no stopping this infatuated pillock that had awoken in him.

The old one had had to give in, to make room for it. To accept there were now two of them inhabiting this mind. When the old one had managed this long very well without the constant interruptions of the new one. The old one was busy, it had things to do, places to be. There was work to be done. The old one had a purpose. The new one wanted to just lie down, dream languidly of John and, blast it, masturbate. 

Well, no, not masturbate. That was only a substitute. It wanted to fuck John, be fucked by John. (The _fuck_ was the old one slapping the new one. The new one was all about making love to John, touching him, kissing him, hearing all the noises he could make, seeing all the looks he could give, hearing all the praise there was to give. The old one was saying, if we have to do this, let's do it hard, fast, howling.) 

The battle in him raged on. Unsure of the right steps to take (because the old one, who could have found the correct course of action was constantly sabotaged by the new one), touching himself was the farthest he had gone in trying to accommodate the new one. That was humiliating enough, his body commanding his mind. Worse, if things didn't change pretty soon, he would have to lock himself in the bathroom permanently. 

But dear god, was _masturbation_ boring. It was like scratching an itch - a momentary relief that did nothing to the actual cause. Repeat until insane. 

And why, why, why, didn't even the irritation, the anger at himself, do nothing to the now almost painfully throbbing erection. It wasn't like he could march to the bathroom like this, his cock proudly guiding him. That would surely make John pull a face worth seeing. He laughed out loud miserably.  
"Something funny?"  
Sherlock looked over his shoulder best he could, pushing his hips against the wall.  
"No, no. You just… read your paper."  
Talking relieved the tension a bit. It brought him back to reality.

"On second thought, John, could you tell me all about the euro crisis?"  
"Seriously?"  
"Yes, very seriously, please. The more serious the better."  
John shrugged his shoulders and off he went. Sherlock focused, demanded the details and sooner than expected he was able to sit up and felt no need to excuse himself anymore. 

"Thank you, John. How enlightening."  
"Didn't think you'd be interested."  
"I most definitely am not."  
John gave him that punch-in-the-face-look. It was charming.  
"Glad to be able to help then."

Things could not continue like this. Obviously the matter wasn't going to solve itself. He would not subject himself to one more pathetic little wank, nor to a discussion about politics in its stead. There would have to be another way. He picked up the violin, tuned it. Chose something he had recently composed himself. 

There were two solutions. He could leave, escape into the night, forge a new life somewhere else as someone else. Without John. But the thought made him nauseous, a knot tightened in his stomach. All in all, as matters stood, it was doubtful he would be able to do anything but ache for John from a distance. He did not want to live without John. That was the simple truth now commanding his existence - it would not be living without John by his side. 

The other solution was much more tempting, but also more dangerous. So many things could go wrong. It was not terrain he was familiar with and a careless step could cause permanent damage to them both. He could give in to his urge, he could give himself to John. His body for John. He could claim John as his own. He could study John, analyse him - the amounts of data he could collect. The thought made him shiver. He slipped up a key. John didn't notice.

But would it be enough? If he gave in to these demands of his body, would he be satisfied or would the new one demand more and more until loving John would be his only purpose in life? It was frightening, more so, when he could distinctly hear the new one shouting: "Yes, yes, loving John is your only purpose in life - what else could you possibly need?" Would the old one be strong enough to protect its needs? To protect the work?

Then again, the old one had John at its side. John respected his work. Admired him for it. John would not let him forget the work. If he burned these urges, satisfied them, hopefully often, he would in all likelihood be able to work better, focus better. For the new one was physical, it wanted carnal contact. Giving into its demands might clear it out of his _mind_ altogether, leave the old one be. He could just fuck John and be done with it rather than be forced to think about it endlessly.

Mind made up he put the instrument down.  
"John, I would like to have sex with you."  
John dropped his book and jaw. He looked shocked, surprised, not sure he'd heard right. But also trying to hold off a flicker of a smile.  
"Wh-what?"  
"That's right. I would like to have sex with you."  
"I… I'm… I don't know what to say… I'm… flattered… I…" John stuttered.  
"Too blunt? Maybe you're right. There are the conveniences of courting that are usually waltzed through before propositioning. I just thought you'd know me better than to expect them."  
John made an effort to collect himself.  
"Stop, stop, stop right there. I need a minute."

Sherlock waited.  
"Okay." John cleared his throat. "Okay. I was not expecting courting, but then I wasn't expecting the proposition either. You want to have sex with me?"  
"Yes. How many times do you need that repeated? I want to have sex with you. Make love as in shag, screw, hump, bang, fuck-"  
"Okay, okay. Got it, thanks. It's just… it's a bit sudden."

Sherlock snorted.  
"Don't be ridiculous. It's been a long time coming. I've seen the looks you give me, the passing touches. You even put on your date shirt when we go out for dinner!"  
"I… noticed that, did you?"  
"Of course. The colour doesn't suit you, by the way. It makes you look pasty."  
"Pasty?"  
"You've spared me from the cologne at least. Those things have a use-by date as well you know."  
"I smell... bad?"  
It was aggravating how John always had a hard time focusing on the relevant.  
"My bedroom or yours? The floor here might be uncomfortable, especially for a first time, though I have ideas for later."  
"Wait a minute, Sherlock."  
"My bed does have a better mattress. And nicer sheets."

"Sherlock. Shut up!"

John had grabbed his arms, held them firmly, looked at him, in his eyes, his face in a frown. And that meant… kissing? Probably. How? What was he supposed to do exactly? He leaned his head in closer to John until their faces were at level with each other. Something in John's look had changed. It was definitely going to be kissing now. He placed his lips on John's. He had no idea what to do next. John did. He traced his hand up to the nape of Sherlock's neck to pull him in. Instead of just pressing their lips together, he aligned his own over Sherlock's to softly tuck them.  
"Relax, Sherlock," John whispered into his mouth.  
He stopped puckering his lips, let them get comfortable, let them follow the movement of John's lips and then, a bit nervously at first, he let them respond. 

It was like playing, one note following the other in harmony, the sweet composition of their kiss. He quivered.  
John pulled back.  
"Now, can we sit down and talk about this."  
Talking? Just when he was having his first kiss! John looked determined.  
"Fine."  
They settled on the sofa.

"What do you want to talk about?"  
"You want to have sex with me?" Then remembering the list, John quickly continued: "I mean, yes, we've established that. I just… want to be sure you know what you're doing. Because it can be a… big thing… to have sex with someone."  
"I am the one wanting sex for the first time, I do know the size of it."  
"So, you really have never had sex?" Unnecessary question after that kiss, really.  
"No."  
"And… this is the first time you even… want to?"  
"Yes."  
"With me?"  
"Yes. You. Only you. Never anyone but you."  
It sounded a lot more like a complaint than a compliment. But damn if it wasn't the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to John.  
"Is that all? Can we now, please, get on with it?"  
Honestly, yes, they could.  
"Your bedroom then," John agreed.

\---

"No, let me," John stopped Sherlock, who had already taken off his dressing gown. John slipped off his own sweater, threw it on the floor and took Sherlock's hand, placed it on his bare chest. Very gently Sherlock moved his hand, feeling his way. The pale curly hairs caressing his palm, the fast beating of John's heart right there, right under his touch, the nipples hardening as he passed them, John in tiny shivers. He was transfixed. He hardly noticed that John was easing his pyjama top off him. Without thinking he kissed John's neck. Carefully at first, then more confidently, then hungry. There it was - the first sound he'd played out of John. An aroused little wheeze. He stood back amazed. 

John smiled at him. That too was new, a playful, teasing, eager smile. Not one of affirmation, but of expectation. John kissed him. John wanted him. He put his arms around John, held him tight. Their mouths no longer needed guiding, they knew what to do as their lips and tongues danced against each other. He pushed himself hard against John and felt him push back. The outline of John's cock against his thigh. For a second he thought he would come right there and then.

John had on jeans whereas Sherlock's pyjama bottoms hardly restrained him. To ease John's discomfort he swiftly opened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, pushed them lower to help John shake them off. And then he touched him. Felt John hard in his hand. There was the second sound, similar to the first one but louder with relief at being touched.

John pulled down his pyjamas quickly and pushed him onto the bed getting on top of him, their naked bodies now touching completely. Their cocks demanding they get closer. 

Christ. One: he had never gathered this much data in one moment, every part of his skin delivering sensations to his brain. What his cock felt was indescribable. He didn't even try to process it. Two: he now fully understood the necessity of shouting for biblical characters during sex. This was as close to heaven anyone ever got. 

He rocked himself against John, his own body surprising him as his hips knew precisely what to do. John kissed his neck, his chest, his teeth nibbling his shoulder. His hands wandered along John's back, feeling his muscles, his buttocks firm as he pressed himself against Sherlock. John's lips on his. John all over him.

Suddenly a fierce wave hit Sherlock, snatched him away, carried him with it. All was quiet. Time stopped. His back arched. He shook. His lips formed John's name, but not a syllable came out. He closed his eyes. Let his body fall, fall, wash upon the shore. It was glorious. A gust of wind blowing through his mind palace, emptying it completely. He couldn't move, couldn't think, he had found peace. He was free.

"You alright there?"  
He could hear the smile in John's voice, not really worried, proud, more like it. John kissed his temple. He made a sound, any sound, for he could not yet form words. 

He came slowly to. John next to him. John's fingers softly tracing his skin. He felt the wet smear on his stomach. He had had sex. He had had sex with John. It was not boring. It was extremely interesting. Worth his time. Worth the time of the old one as well. He would need to catalogue and organize everything. Right now he felt light-headed, unable to think clearly. Another first.

He was so overwhelmed, so focused only in himself, that it took too long for him to realise how massively he had cocked up. In the worst way possible. He sprang up to lean on his elbow and turned to John blushing in embarrassment. He was mortified, hardly daring to look at John.  
"What about you?" he mumbled.  
"Don't worry about me. Best I've ever had."  
John caressed his face smiling. He did look happy.  
"But I want to… " He wasn’t sure. He should have planned this better. But having come to a conclusion he had proceeded to execution without wasting any more time.  
John chuckled.  
"Trust me, I’m loving this. Seeing you happy and spent, having been the one, who did that to you, that's more than enough for now. The way you came, that was… Like I said, I've never had better. You're amazing. You're… gorgeous. Your cock… Christ, the things I'm going to do to you…"  
He kissed Sherlock on the lips, felt himself grow harder. They had all night. 

They must have heard the door bell, but didn't process it until they heard the step creak. The second one. If you wanted to come up quietly, you needed to step on the right corner.  
"No. Shit, Sherlock," John grunted.  
Being the one more experienced, he was out of bed and clothed before Sherlock, who still seemed to be out of it, moving in slow motion. John didn't have time to check the mirror, but he did make it to the kitchen before Lestrade entered the living room.

"Hello there," Lestrade greeted, "is the man with the mind around?"  
John combed his hair with his hand. If he didn't look like he'd just had sex, then he would never look like he just had sex.  
"Whoa, sorry, did I interrupt something?"  
"Er, no, quite… er… no."  
Convincing.  
"What is it, Lestrade?"  
Sherlock, who had been barely conscious thirty seconds ago, was perfectly dressed, combed and looked like he had been reading a scientific journal.  
"Nothing… just a murder," he waved it aside, "but what's with John? Who is she? Where is she?"

Sherlock looked at John and grinned.  
"Yes, John, do tell us all about her."  
"What? No, there's… what are you talking about?"  
Sherlock laughed, enjoying this a bit too much for John's liking.  
"Please, you're in the company of two detectives, not that Lestrade often earns the title, but you're too obvious. You look precisely like a man, who has just, about thirty seconds ago, abandoned a satisfied lover in post-coital bliss in a hurry to meet… Lestrade, of all people. Tut, tut, John. She deserves better."  
The two were smirking to each other knowingly. John shook his head.  
"So, murder?" he tried to engage Lestrade.  
"Ha, you're not getting away with it so easily. Is she still here?" Lestrade pointed upstairs.  
"There's no one here but me and Sherlock."  
"Pity… would like to meet the lady. Seems to have given you a good ride," Lestrade said a touch enviously.

Sherlock was giggling, John blushing.  
"Can we go and see dead bodies now, please?" John pleaded.  
"Alright, alright, follow me, gentlemen," Lestrade led the way, John and Sherlock following.  
Sherlock fondled John's neck and whispered:  
"Sorry, couldn't resist."  
The touch, the closeness of his lips sent a trickle of heat that settled in John's groin.  
"Next time, though, you stay in bed." 

\---

Sherlock was relieved. It had worked. He was able to concentrate on the crime scene, noticing every detail, processing them and at the same time - as usual - think about other things without John controlling all of his thoughts. How appropriate then that while he made deductions on the corpse (fifty year old male, divorced five years ago, three children in their teens who he saw every other weekend, heavy user of dating sites, but nothing ever went beyond two dates, too many pub nights, tried to balance them out with jogging, bludgeoned to death, and so on), he kept the rest of his mind on John. 

John was definitely thinking about sex. He would have to make sure that next time John's needs were taken care of, too. They both needed to focus on the case. He was very embarrassed. How quaintly normal. Ashamed of his first time, afraid he wasn't good at it, that he'd been a disappointment. Cringing at his so-called stamina. John had probably thought they were just warming up. 

"Where are his business cards?"  
"What do you mean?" Donovan squawked.  
"Business cards? And a small case they're in?"  
The familiar faces empty of all signs of intelligence. Some things didn't change.  
"A business man, in a suit, with a briefcase. We have his phone, keys, papers, tablet, but where is his box of business cards? The ones he gives out to his contacts and the ones he receives? He should have a pile of his own and two or three he's gotten in the past few days and hasn't given to his PA for filing yet."  
"We haven't found those," Lestrade admitted. Not that they had looked.  
Well, that was that. Nothing more to see here.

"John, let's go."  
They hopped on a cab.  
"Where to, then?" John asked.  
"Huh? Hmm. Here's fine. Here's fine, please. Wait? Five minutes?"  
He pulled John along with him. Held on to him as they walked ahead the back lane. Here it was. He opened the door and they stepped into a storage room. He pushed John against the wall and started kissing him passionately.  
"Hold on, Sherlock," John tried to protest.  
"We've only got a couple of minutes," he was already opening John's trousers.  
"For what? What is this place? Oh, that's, ooh, that's very nice-"  
He took John in his hand, stroked him. He was already hard. It was no surprise with the thoughts he'd been entertaining since they left home.  
"Sherlock, seriously, as much as, oh god, I like what you're doing-," he was kissing John's neck as he fondled his balls, "is this really the right, ah, time and place?"  
"Certainly. I can't have you thinking about sex while we work. You need to be focused."  
"Well, then, oh, by all means," John gasped.

He knelt down. John's cock hard and heavy in front of him. He took it in his hand. Moistened his lips. How difficult could it be? He licked its length. Salty, so... stiff, ready. Leaking. He tasted the pre-cum, let his tongue play on the glans. He wanted to suck John's cock. He was hungry for it. It turned him on. Carefully he let John slip in his mouth. John caught his breath. He felt around with his tongue, studied the feel of John with his mouth. Delicious.

John's fingers wrapped around his head. He picked up a rhythm. John's moans and sighs assuring him that he was doing it right. A bit of saliva dripping on his chin. He varied the rhythm, stroked with his tongue. Let John slide in deeper, his hand on the shaft following the suction of his mouth, moving along with it. 

John's breathing was ragged, his grip on Sherlock's hair almost painfully tight.  
"I'm gonna come," he managed to groan a warning as Sherlock felt a small tug before the cock pumped its load. John collapsed over him moaning. The sound of John coming. He trembled a little. Divine. The symphonies they would play.

"Jesus, Sherlock, how did you… that was… amazing."  
Sherlock guided him down next to himself, kissed him on the lips.  
"Satisfied?"  
John chuckled.  
"Understatement of the century. That was good. Very good."  
"Great. Let's go then."  
Sherlock stood up and helped John to his feet. He tucked John in, straightened his clothes. But there was nothing he could do with the look on John's face that said he had just been given the best head ever. 

\---

"There you are, thought you'd get here before us," Lestrade met them at the flat of the victim.  
"John, what's with the smile, did Sherlock blow you on the way?" Donovan cracked.  
John went pink. Sherlock burst out laughing, getting a nasty look from Donovan. She was not used to Sherlock finding her funny.  
"John's got a girlfriend," Lestrade helped, "just missed her earlier."  
"Aww, pity things didn't work out between the freak and you. Always thought you'd make a lovely couple. Maybe it's best like this. Who knows what crazy kinks the lunatic would think of in bed," Donovan continued her tirade. 

Sherlock was in stitches while he searched the flat. John was rather looking forward to the kinks.  
"What's so funny, freak?"  
"Well, he did blow me on the way, that's all," John said.  
"'Right, no need to get your panties in a twist. Just 'aving a laugh here. Jeez. Someone's sensitive," Donovan sulked.  
Sherlock was now laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. How anyone could be so stupid. They saw it, even thought about, and yet refused to make the right deductions. It was ludicrous. 

Lestrade pulled John away angry.  
"Is he high? Please, don't tell me he's high. Don't tell me, that I have a man on drugs investigating my crime scene."  
"He is not high. Not on anything illegal anyway."  
Lestrade glanced at Sherlock.  
"Why is he like that then? What's so funny?"  
"Because he did - ". But he decided it wasn't the right time just yet. He wanted things to develop on their own a few more days. To see what this actually was. "Never mind. I'll fill you in later." Besides, it was quite funny, how no one seemed to believe their eyes.

There was nothing of immediate interest in the flat. Two of his children had been over the past weekend. Normally he sustained on ready meals, tidied the place up only for visitors. If he didn't go to the pub in the evening, he often worked at home. 

They headed for the workplace. Sherlock was very pleased. He was fully immersed in the case, like he should be. John right there next to him, holding his hand and not needing a single thought. He caressed John's thumb and even though it sent a lovely, warm tingle spreading from his palm, it did not disturb his work. The busy goings-on of the old one.

The PA was a nervous twenty-something (twenty-six years, three months and two days), who giggled irritatingly when Sherlock spoke to her (nervous, attracted). Her make-up was sloppily applied, the shoes didn't go with the rest of her outfit, and the jewellery seemed to be for brighter colours, too. Her boss had had no meetings that morning. He had turned up at the office at nine, left after ten o'clock for what she'd taken as personal business and an early lunch. She had not seen his business cards, nor the small metallic case he kept them in. Sherlock was welcome to look in his office. 

Sherlock searched the victim's calendar and its history on the pc. The bin had been cleared at 1:46 pm. Someone had deleted a meeting after the man was dead and tried to make sure it couldn't be found. Case closed. Well, that was simple. Even Lestrade could've done this.  
"So... Stronger than you look, aren't you? Cross-fit?" he addressed the PA.  
"Yes, how did you..."  
"Not easy beating a man to death. But he wouldn't expect that from you. What did you use? No, don't tell me! A barbell? Why would you lug something so cumbersome around with you? Ah, he had just bought it, of course. You'd recommended weights and you picked it up together after the meeting."  
"Now, hang on-"  
"That must have been messy. You had to shower and change before you came back to the office. Didn't bother with the accessories, thought no one would notice."

Sherlock was already texting Lestrade to search the PA's flat. Her protests effectively blocked out as meaningless. The bloody clothes would be... he looked at the woman... in a bin on the way to the tube station. Closest to the flat. She wouldn't have the nerve to carry them with her for long. The barbell close to the crime scene… Quite right, the lock was only a street away, a task for divers. And yes, please send someone to take the young lady in. They had things to do and couldn't babysit her for long.  
"Chinese?"  
"Sure," John agreed. "Take away?"  
Definitely.

\---

"I never thought they could be so ridiculous about us," Sherlock laughed in the taxi.  
"Well, I'm glad you're having fun. Lestrade thought you were high."  
They giggled.  
"I am, aren't I? On you."  
A soft, gentle kiss. 

So many ways to kiss. He was setting up a room for kisses in his mind palace. Data on John needed its own wing. Perhaps even a shrine. In that case he would need a rating system for their moments together. That would be difficult. So far everything was perfect. The new one was getting everything it had wanted and more. Things it hadn't even known of. 

As Baker Street approached Sherlock could feel John's pulse quickening. They were barely touching, fingers lazily brushing. Just the thought of privacy with Sherlock turned John on. Which turned Sherlock on. He stroked John's thigh, the inner seam. John kept his on the right. John cleared his throat, sat up straight, tried to control his hard-on under Sherlock's palm. Staring out the window he took hold of Sherlock's hand and pressed it hard against himself, almost grunting out loud as Sherlock groped him. 

Getting out and paying seemed to take forever. They nearly ran upstairs. Their mouths locked on the top step as they started to undress hastily, clumsily, fingers resisting anything but touching skin, sleeves getting caught, belts tangling, all the while moving towards the bedroom. The movements rushed as they burned with desire. As they fell on the bed, John kicked off his trousers, Sherlock's had been left somewhere in the hallway. Only thing that mattered was the touch of their skins. 

John guided their hands around both their cocks, against each other in their joined grip. Sherlock moaned his name, repeating it over and over until it turned into a meaningless resonance of his lust. The waves came again, again, again. John bit Sherlock's chest, left his mark on his neck. 

Calming down, breaths steadying they rested in a tight embrace. Sherlock's lips against John's forehead. To think he had waited so long, fought against this ecstasy. Madness.

The doorbell, again. No, it couldn't be. But it was. Lestrade on the stairs.  
"Ough, I want to cuddle!" John protested.  
"I got it," Sherlock winked, "I want to see how long we can keep this up."  
He was ready in twenty seconds, settled with a paper in the living room by the time Lestrade made it there.  
"Look, Sherlock, we found the bloody clothes and the weapon just where you said, but you don't happen to know about the motive, do you?"  
"Seriously? I thought that was obvious." And for this he had left the bed.  
"Er, no?" Lestrade admitted baffled.  
"Did you find the business cards?"  
"We did, yes. In her flat."  
"And?"  
"There were three that weren't his."  
"Danielson Mining has a gold mine. Literally. He took his PA to the meeting with him, thought it was a hoax. She realised that no one else knew about the deal and she could hijack it - as long as she got rid of her boss before they got back to the office," to make to motive absolutely clear, he added: "Money."  
"Ah, that makes sense. Thanks," Lestrade tried to get a closer look at him, "you've got something on your neck…", but Sherlock put his paper up.  
"Yes, thank you."

John had redressed very carefully. He even looked in the mirror and sorted his hair before going to the living room. It was blatantly obvious what he had been up to.  
"You're doing her in Sherlock's bedroom?! Are you really okay with that?" Lestrade, incredulous, turned to Sherlock.  
It was unreal.  
"Greg, whatever Sherlock says, I refuse to believe you're that daft. Connect the blasted dots, will you?" John laughed.

Very slowly, way too slowly, the perplexed look transformed into understanding.  
"Ah, right," Lestrade finally smiled embarrassed, "I don't know, what I was thinking. I had already given up hope on you two." He looked at their cheerful, happy faces, a bit jealous. All he had to look forward to was an empty flat and an empty fridge. "Celebrations are in order, right? You still got that gin I brought? I could fix us all martinis."  
John and Sherlock exchanged a look. Message received. It was worth a shot anyway.  
"Right, right, of course. Well," Lestrade started for the door, "sorry to have disturbed you. And, yeah, in the future I'll call before barging in."  
"Cheers, we'll have the drinks another time, promise," John shouted after him. 

"Sherlock?"  
He had found an interesting article and was immersed in reading.  
"Hmm?"  
"I believe we have some unfinished business in the bedroom." John had missed (at least) two after-sex snuggles and who knew what else might follow after a bit of rest. "Get your kit off and come on." Sherlock was happy to comply.

\---

Morning. John clattering in the kitchen. Up at six, ever the soldier. He rolled over to lie where John had slept. His warmth was already gone but the scent lingered. He hugged the pillow. It was real. John was his.

And more, well, at least as, important was that his solution was working. His mind in order again. The case yesterday had been fun. No one else would probably have thought the PA could give a grown man such a beating. He might go over to the mortuary today, take a closer look at the wounds a barbell made. He put on his dressing gown, shuffled to the kitchen. 

John was cooking breakfast. He draped himself around him, buried his face in his nape, pressing his lips against it. I love you John. John smiled happy.  
"Morning gorgeous, sleep well?"  
He muttered an affirmative into John's hair.  
"Funny, after all this time I still don't know how you like your eggs?"  
Truth be told, he preferred them poached on a muffin with ham and hollandaise on the side, but doubted John's culinary prowess stretched that far.  
"Scrambled's fine."

His hands travelled under John's shirt. Wandered over the warm skin, the muscles tensing under his touch. John, I love you. He kissed his neck, bit his teeth into it making John flinch. John was leaning backwards, against him. The hand distractedly holding the spatula. Sherlock reached out and turned off the cooker. John, let me play a song with you. Let me pluck your strings and draw my bow across you. He trembled as John ground his hips against him. Slow, circular motions. John, let me learn your timbre. 

John turned; Sherlock pulling the shirt off him. Looking into Sherlock's eyes he slowly opened his gown and let it fall on the floor. Sherlock shivered, the kitchen was cold. John kissed his chest, put his arms around him and pulled him closer. He shivered. 

John stared Sherlock unabashedly. The fully erect cock saluting from amongst the straight symmetrical lines, the firm muscles. The dark curls around it. He would be happy just admiring this body. Being able to touch it was almost too much. He led Sherlock to the bedroom. Breakfast could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all for now.  
> This one seemed to take the matters into its own hands, I thought we'd end up somewhere else. But I had a lot fun writing.


End file.
